When I saw that a new book called Videotapes from Hell was on the way this year, I assumed it would be a sort of direct-to-VHS sequel to Hendrix's book. I was expecting a Satan's bounty of more full-color, cuckoo artwork and more droll commentary on how crazy, crappy, and captivating it all is.
Editor Stephen Jones at least delivered on half of my expectations. With its images of toilet-dwelling green-faced goblins (Ghoulies), werewolves worthy of a third-grade art class (Fury of the Wolfman), and chainsaw-brandishing prostitutes (Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers), Videotapes from Hell is easily the visual equal of Hendrix's book.
Where the book let me down is in the writing. Stephen Jones (credited only as editor, even though he does all the compositional heavy lifting) takes his job way to seriously. Didn't he see that video box artwork for Una Virgen en Casa De Los Muertos Vivientes, featuring a skull-faced lingerie model blasting a sunbeam out of her eye socket? Seriousness is not what a book like Videotapes From Hell demands. It demands all the uproarious irreverence of Night of the Bloody Apes, Hollywood Scream Queen Hot Tub Party, or any of the other fab schlock he surveys.
Instead we get some dry history, some of which is genuinely interesting (did you know that we have The Wrath of Khan to thank for affordable VHS tapes or that the last Betamax machine was manufactured as recently as 2002? Did you?!?!?), and some guest commentaries by the likes of Stephen King, Mick Garris, Brink Stevens, Kim Newman, and others who should be familiar to anyone who'd read a book like this. Therein lie the memories of going into tawdry mom-and-pop shops to rent grubby, low-budget horror movies or firsthand accounts of making them, which is what we came here for. But they're more bloody eyeball hors d'oeuvres than the bounteous entrails banquet of horror and hilarity I was hoping for.
